


As A Hello

by aqhrodites



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Love Letters, Love Poems, PeterMJ - Freeform, Spideychelle, Teen Romance, a combination of first meetings over the years, and peter writes poetry that's totally not about mj, but of course it is, mj doesn't know how to go about her growing crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: For a moment, Michelle just stares up at him—he doesn't, can't meet her stare as he chews his lip. Looks down at his socks.On the paper in her hand is a crumpled, crudely written poem in pencil. It's dated as far back as ninth grade, and is filled with complications of heart rushes and insecurities, and it had been really fucking amusing as it as heartbreaking until Michelle read her name, signed by sender, at the bottom. There's dried mystery stains along the back as if it has once been tossed into a wastebasket. The box is filled with notes like this, some crumpled and forgotten, some unfinished, some a full-page long.And she's—Well, Michelle is dumbfounded.And if she were to be asked if her pulse stuttered while suppressing a grin, she'd straight up lie.A story in which Peter writes MJ love letters that she finds, hidden away underneath his bed.“I’ve had a crush on you since freshman year and we’re working on a science project together at my house, but when I leave the room you dig through my stuff and find a box dedicated to you under my bed, andnothose aren’t the unsent love cards addressed to you...but they are."





	As A Hello

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompts within: “You’re throwing paper planes at your friend and you accidentally hit me in the back of the head and I may have slapped you because I didn’t think it was accidental” ;**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **“I accidentally took your hoodie because I thought it was mine and you just noticed I’m wearing it, this is awkward”;**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **“you accidentally added me to this group chat and i don’t know how to take myself off” AU;**
> 
>  
> 
> **“i’ve had a crush on you since kindergarten and we’re working on a science project together at my house but when i leave the room you dig through my stuff and find a box dedicated to you under my bed and no those aren’t the valentines day cards you gave me in the 2nd grade” au;**
> 
>  
> 
> **“"Listen you’ve been standing on the sidewalk outside of my house for the last three hours are you a murderer waiting for me to fall asleep or what”**

The whole thing—

It didn't turn into as much of a disaster as it _could have_ become, honestly.

* * *

Peter's only been in school for two class periods when everything goes down.

He's curled over his tablet, sitting at a randomly chosen table, and counting down the remaining minutes until the late bell. It's an art class, a necessary credit—this or wood shop, and he sure as hell isn't going to take another class with Flash Thompson if he could help it.

It is art fundamentals. Long wooden table stained with splatters of dried paint, charcoal, and Exacto knife indents. On the walls are drying collections of student watercolor paintings of fruit, mannequin gesture drawings, and mobiles made from recycle scraps hang from paper clips in the ceiling near the corner close to the back door. Students steadily stream into the room, filling the empty blue plastic chairs.

Peter had been sitting alone, scrolling through news articles for possible current events that his teacher assigns every Monday; he had been sitting alone at a table nearing the back of the room when he has his first—occurrence?; inconvenience?— _incident_ with her. Sliding into the seat in front of him, she sits with a slight slouched posture, assured, altruistic air, wearing small diamond-stud earrings, string bracelets, and a simple white and navy blue striped shirt contrasting with his black Walmart-brand t-shirt—that's the first thing he notices. He watches her lug her bag onto the table and unload a sketchpad, an eraser, and three types of pencils before taking out a book and opening to a dog-eared page. She has her hair tied up in a ballet bun; wears an unreadable expression, between boredom and grandiose. She looks like the kind of girl he would rather swallow his own tongue than have the ability to approach.

She goes by one name, he'll learn: MJ.

More formally, Michelle.

He watches—he _stares_. He doesn't know why.

The late bell rings. Students scurry to fill the remaining chairs as class begins.

The art teacher is strict, it's rumored. So, Peter's tablet is hidden immediately away just as the woman enters after the last of the students, closing the door behind her. She's a pin-straight woman who wears paint-stained cargo pants and loose, paisley floral pattern buttoned downs, her hair either loose and untamed or in a high ponytail that's tight enough to cause headache on sight.

It's ninth grade. The smell of eraser shavings and clay permeate the air. Peter isn't too enthusiastic for this class.

The students listen to the woman deliver the routined lecture of the beginning of the school year, her voice scathing. On her desk is only a pencil cup holding a ruler, a black Sharpie marker, large orange scissors, and a stapler. There aren't any staples inside it.

Diagonally and at the same table, a different girl quips under her breath that the teacher must not have a social life. When asked by the teacher to repeat her comment, the girl lies. The grouchy girl in front of him snickers.

Peter has his first _incident_ with Michelle Jones that day in art class.

He sighs deeply, ripping out a notebook page in preparation to take notes on a film, as it's instructed by the woman with thick winged eyeliner immediately following the her speech. Peter twirls his pen between his fingers. It's played on a Smartboard projecting on a white marker board.

This is one of few classes he doesn't share with his singular friend, Ned. So, when halfway through the film, the instructor stepping outside the room for a phone call, it takes no time that a wad of notebook paper hits Peter on the back of his hand that's holding his cheek. And looking around, noting that there isn't anyone sitting further away, he knows it had been intentional. In retaliation, the teen launches the paper back to the boastful looking student side-eyeing him in a baseball varsity jacket, the ball soaring over the heads of three more scattered students.

Unbeknownst to him, Michelle shifts uncomfortably, scooting her chair further forward and away.

Varsity Jacket's upper lip wrinkles and gives a cynical grin. Peter sinks lower in his chair, hoping to be dropped from their list of victims and avoid reprisal.

Peter receives five more crumpled balls aimed his way by two more bullying students.

Then there's the telltale squeak of the front classroom door opening, followed by the sliding of the instructor's sandals across the tile floor, and then a Southern-accented chirping, "Devon? Devon! Report to the guidance office."

The movie continues to play as Devon moves sluggishly, taking times to nosily gather his belongings, and _purposely_ walking in front of the screen. The few in the front row groan. Devon flips them off.

The tall, middle-aged teacher, with her messy up-do and southern Miami accent begins scrolling through her cell phone at her desk, giving a quick chide to pay attention to the film.

There's perhaps an hour left of the film. She gives an announcement that this will likely turn into a two-day assignment.

Varsity Jacket rears back, sending Peter death-stares that he desperately tries to ignore. And Peter doesn't know why he's so surprised when a folded paper airplane, covered in crudely drawn penises and jibbing obscenities, soars over the heads of classmates. He's entirely more in shock about it landing smack in the middle of Michelle's head, right below her bun.

Peter has been in class for maybe an hour when the next thing he knows—he doesn't, actually. He doesn't register what's happened until he's already fallen out of his chair, the metal legs scraping across the floor, his hair tousled and one shoe the only remains of him in his seat and a steadily increasing sting throbbing across the side of his face.

The classroom goes almost comically still, eyes wide and mouths open and expressions frozen in a weirdly endearing assortment of dread, annoyance, and amusement—but Michelle is looming over him, curly bun undisturbed from whiplash, her nostrils flaring, and Peter's pretty sure that the entire class is holding its breath. The slap had been undeniably _loud_ , yes, and the hurried shuffling, the footsteps sliding across the floor kept his heart swelling, racing far too quickly. And, brisk and defining, the teacher's orders ring above the playing film:

"Dean's office! Now!"

Peter experiences his first _incident_ with Michelle "MJ" Jones during art class.

The class is told to return their attentions to the screen.

Michelle rips apart the paper plane, leaving the pile on the table, before gathering her things to leave.

She doesn't help Peter up.

In fact, she doesn't say a thing at all.

* * *

 

They both get detention.

Peter tries to argue that it isn't his doing. It's insisted that he will be punished from causing a large, unnecessary disturbance, and his teacher didn't want to deal with it any further.

"Well what about _her_?"

It turns out that the girl is receiving detention in consequence for slapping him.

* * *

 

They don't talk.

Obviously.

But their detention supervisor is lazy and detached, and it's found out that it had been a misunderstanding, Michelle mistaking that Peter purposely hit her with the plane.

"It was made out of _paper—!_ "

"It still hurt though."

* * *

 

First impressions—

First impressions aren't exactly his strongest suit.

* * *

 

The second _incident_ featuring Michelle Jones happens after the Decathlon Nationals of sophomore year.

By now they're friends—

No. They're associates. Teammates. _Acquaintances_ at best, she corrects, though for the past full school year, they have been sharing the same lunch table, forced into being lab partners, and by the time they're told to partner-up for a poetry project in English, Peter's positive that the teachers have it out for him.

He also finds that Michelle's rather weaker suit is poetry, but that's a story for a later time.

It's after the Decathlon Nationals and their trip to Washington, D.C. and their team narrowly escaped death in a malfunctioned elevator, and they're now crowded around a circular table at Red Lobster. Abe and Charles are devouring cheddar biscuits. Mr. Harrington nurses a tall glass of Sprite, wishing it beer instead. Ned makes a quick Snapchat. Sally gives a sly-off-the-wall comment about preparation and flakers, and Peter acts like the air doesn't grow a little chillier beneath her side-appointed glare.

It's a victory dinner paid with leftover wish-list money.

The waiter returns with the first round of entree plates when it's voiced that Michelle still hasn't returned from the bathroom. As an immediate response, Flash wrinkles his nose, but Cindy speaks up about the girl's particular behavior to the teacher. That she took her cellphone with her. That Cindy received a questionable, cryptic, _concerning_ text from the other. Harrington's first reaction is to instruct the team captain to search the woman's restroom, reluctant to let Cindy go—giving the excuse of it being "team captain duties."

Michelle is found sitting in the corner of the handicap stall.

Liz pinpoints her by the echoing of soft sobs, sees the toilet tissue covering the lining of the toilet bowl, her dirt-stained white fronts of her converses. Between the spaces of the doors, Liz catches a glimpse of tear streaking her face before giving a quick rap upon the locked door. Her name is called, and Michelle goes strikingly quiet. Liz can hear the men's restroom door opening and closing just outside. The sliding of Michelle's shoes across the floor as she pulls her knees closer to her chest is the only sound between between them for the longest. Then there's a sniff. A clearing of a throat.

"What is it, Liz?" She's managed to mask the tightness in her throat. Barely so. For now.

"You okay?" Then, she backtracks. "Yeah, dumb question. Can I come in?"

Michelle's first response is to reject.

Liz insists that she means no harm.

Still, it feels like a full ten minutes before the lock flips and Michelle is standing there, eyes swelling with a clear pink tinge, flyaways sticking from her ponytail, the remnants of mascara Cindy applied for her just hours ago gathering beneath her eyes. The rest has been blotted off on tissue and tossed in the toilet.

Still, Michelle squares her shoulders, levels her chin, wipes at her cheek and scrunches her nose in a sniff as she keeps her gaze steady. She manages to reconstruct her composure. Hardens. It's quite a challenge.

Liz blinks. Michelle squirms underneath her eyes. Then there's a soft, "you mind if I come in, MJ?"

A flicker of emotion cross Michelle's face before she closes up again. Her nose is pink. Tongue darts out to wet her lips. She hesitates, seems to visibly brace herself, but gives a squeak of an answer that's a little higher than she hopes, and she flinches.

Liz doesn't ask for an explanation, a clarification, and Michelle is grateful; the two sit in silence, and Michelle is grateful that she's just there.

* * *

When the team returns to the bus in preparation to drive back to Midtown, Michelle is wearing only a vague glow of a cry. No one speaks about her disappearance before, and she's thankful.

On the bus, Cindy gives her a pat on the shoulder, handing over a bag with two takeout containers inside—one hers, the other Liz's. In the seat across , Ned offers a cheddar biscuit stashed inside a brown takeout paper bag. Michelle declines, snuggling against the window and wrapping her arms tighter around herself in comfort from the sweater Liz returned. In fact—Michelle tries to think where she's gotten this sweater from, though she had been certain for the past two days that it's from a JCPenny's or GAP or wherever she can't remember. Even though the sleeves reach to her knuckles because the shoulders are a bit too wide than she remembers and the neckline slightly more stretched than she keeps hers. As though it's a size too large.

The second incident featuring Michelle Jones happens on the bus on the way back from Decathlon Nationals.

She's wearing a crimson long-sleeved pullover, contrasting to her hair, and has a jarring, _startled_ look and she feels her face heat up as Peter climbs the bus stairs, and she immediately recognizes the brick red sweater he's holding in his hands. And when his eyes lock with the red collar of her identical sweatshirt and then her stare, her nose scrunches as she holds a stern facade, her front teeth dig into her bottom lip as he approaches, passes, flops down in the seat _right_ behind her.

 _Of fucking course_ he would.

The rest of the bus converses as the engine starts and they exit the parking lot.

But it isn't until two hours later does she catch him draping his arms over the back of her seat, silent, as if he's waiting for a greeting, a reply—an explanation.

Under his stare, Michelle is small. She's excited and adrenalized. The _fight or flight_ instinct kicks in and she wants nothing but to sprint. _Fast_. To run like she's being chased, dodging questionable gazes and misconceptions and boys with tousled brown hair and wide, heartfelt eyes.

Instead, she begins this conversation calm and poise—starts it because he sure as hell doesn't. "What do you want, Parker?"

She detects a hesitation, a contemplation on his part. "Um," he starts, dumbly. "I think—" He breaks off when she turns to see him, the same slightly bored, slightly indifferent pout to her mouth. "I think—" he swallows, lowering to just above a whisper, "I think I accidentally took your hoodie. Because—it's—you—you've got mine. This one's too small. And I just noticed—"

She interrupts, speaking at normal volume and not bothering to whisper. "I got this one from Liz. Like, two days ago. She found it for me." There's a quirk of an eyebrow, a telling edge to her voice that Peter picks up on.

Two days ago had been when he snuck out to follow the criminal nicknamed Vulture, and when he was trapped overnight in D.O.D.C.

Michelle's undertone reads: _if you hadn't flaked, then maybe this wouldn't be a problem now._

Peter's jaw closes, tightens.

She's right.

No one appears to be eavesdropping, and he relaxes a bit.

"Is there any way to tell that this is yours?" she challenges, crossing her arms. To tell the truth, the sweatshirt is soft and comfortable for one, and also because it's—

She teases, asking if his name is printed inside the instructions tag. Instead, he tells that there's a permanent stain on the bottom hem from a broken pen.

And—

Well. Michelle is dumbfounded and goes silent.

 _Well damn_.

Peter's closing words are about his admitting of feeling awkward—and Michelle's "yeah, what else is new?"—because in his rush, he had been wearing hers for the same amount of time. Unintentionally stretching the arms, and most unknowingly leaving a hint of his presence, a fragrance of remembrance about his fault.

And if Michelle were to be asked if her pulse stuttered while suppressing a grin, she'd straight up lie.

* * *

Charles happens to overhear. He had been lying down on the seat behind them, and his declaration about the conversation isn't modest or respectively reserved, and turning the attention of the bus to the two.

In an act of defiance, Michelle models the jacket for the rest of the ride. To her private amusement, getting Peter to chime in.

* * *

 

Meaningless to say, that sweater incident sparked a connection. Soon, the silence between the two is filled with chatter that turned into growing familiarity that turns into unofficial invisible tether.

* * *

 

First impressions aren't always the best or trustworthy, yes.

But they aren't friends, she would say. Even if asked for clarification if the extra ten dollars contributed to the pack of Publix pre-made birthday cupcakes had been from her, she'd lie to your face.

And if asked if he had gifted her that new best seller she'd been wanting, she would grow defensive.

They're nothing but associates. Fellow classmates. It's congenial, courtesy. It's expected. It's an acquisitive daydream.

* * *

 

Michelle isn't a grade A expert on things that have to do with relationships. She knows, she would reluctantly admit.

But dammit, does she want it.

* * *

 

Three months later, Peter texts her.

Well, not exactly text, she'll come to learn. Following a four-part text bubble of word-vomit and badgering about the difference between the technological superiority between the worlds of Stargate Atlantis and Star Trek, she gets some textbook lesson on the mad science of biology vs zoology.

Michelle gets accidentally added to a group chat three months later that include Peter, Ned, and three others.

Silently, she's surprised the two talk to any others—but it's not like she's any better.

She's improving, for a start.

Which is why for the next three weeks she doesn't intervene with the chat. She learns schedules, their test scores from last week's, about how one has a pair of limited edition caps, and another who still has a full collection of Pokemon cards and is then teased about it; she memorizes custom profile pictures and usernames and learns the locations of their super-secret-nerd meetings in which unoccupied classroom. Michelle turns her visibility off and reads shared stories of terrible family dinners, evil pets, possessed hand-me-down toys, and secondhand embarrassment.

She takes the opportunity to tease Ned and Peter about it at lunch, dropping small bits and hints on subjects spoken in their chat the night before. They don't seem to pick up on it—until it's found out that the person left out possessed a phone number that's two digits different than Michelle's. And he's contacted, scolded that he's _missed so much_ , and is added to the chat.

Michelle's, a misnamed number, is removed. She doesn't bring it up.

* * *

 

She still has the sweater Peter once mistook as his. She used to wear it, able to smell him in the fabrics; she'd ignore the clenching of her gut from it, convinced herself that the elevation in her mood is that he stretched out the top and shoulders enough for it to be a more comfortable fit.

It no longer holds his smell.

* * *

 

The next incident featuring Michelle Jones happens sometime nearing their senior year of high school.

By now they're friends.

Peter relaxes easy at this.

They're study partners, Decathlon veterans, and even invite each other over for periodic movie nights—always along with a few other friends, of course. They buy coffee before school hours and exchange sweaters in the wintertime. It's nearly a year after the shenanigans of missed club meetings and stood-up dates and unfamiliarities.

Now, they have each other's contacts saved. And, Michelle is certain that the gut-twisting feeling isn't so much as nausea and irritation as she once suspected.

Peter dares call each other _friends_. This time she doesn't correct him.

* * *

He also finds that Michelle's presence and personality a perfect muse for an upcoming assignment.

It's late May. There's an upcoming science project that is worth thirty percent of their final grade. To make it better, the two had been paired together per _"randomization."_

Michelle scoffs at this. Her teacher doesn't meet her eyes for the rest of the period.

Or rather, it's worse. Because for the past three hours, she had taken charge—creating ideas, suggesting adjustments for the model—and he acting as if his lack of communication or inability to speak without fucking tripping over his tongue wasn't what made her finally grumble a huff that she needs a break, and leave him cross-legged on his bedroom.

He doesn't object. Because he's sure it seems like he's fucking up everything—turned into a fucking homework leech, into a mute dunce, an entitled inconvenience.

She had left because she leaned over and saw that he was scribbling fucking stanzas instead of notes for their project. In his defense, it's for a separate, upcoming assignment.

He hears the front door close with emotion as Michelle leaves. He tries to not overthink it too much, choosing to hurry and finish the rhyme of the next line before he forgets—this was a golden one, he feels, surely to get him an A for this poetry packet. Unfortunately, that doesn't quite happen, Aunt May barging in to question about Michelle right when he'd thought of the perfect metaphor for something beautiful to look at, but poisonous to the touch.

* * *

The final incident including MJ Jones happens that afternoon. Her ride hasn't arrived yet. In the kitchen, May Parker prepares a cup of lavender tea. The television plays a preview for the upcoming late night news, about Spider-Man allegedly hunting down a giant creature in the sewers, and Peter tries not to show feeling when they nark on him about crawling out of a sewer.

Outside, the night air is cool, the sun taking away the warming rays of springtime.

On the streets, a homeless man pushes a grocery cart of cardboard boxes and blankets. Two stray cats scurry after each other. A group of children dispense as they're ordered to get inside for dinner.

When Michelle arrives back inside the Parkers' residence, she greets May with information that she had been on the phone with her parents, and that they will be arriving soon. Hopefully, she tacks on, so low that the woman believes she imagines it.

She re-enters Peter's room after a hesitant, soft knock. She finds the room empty, but everything left the way it had been—her bag is still there on the floor and opened, her note cards for the class spread out across the carpet, his shoes tugged off and left haphazardly outside his closet, her sweater left on his desk chair, their seats obvious and outlined by empty potato chip bags and styrofoam plates and notebooks—

Speaking of notebooks, Michelle grows curious about the one Peter had been scribbling in. She sees it isn't anywhere in sight, and his room not exactly cluttered, it would not prove easy to find it.

Outside, she hears the front door open and close, the footsteps travel to the hallway bathroom.

Then, Michelle spots the bent corner of an old shoe box under his bed.

* * *

Peter exits the guest bathroom with wet hands and still shivering from the weather outside.

On the couch, May is indulging in the newest episode of Shark Tank. He catches a criticizing grumble about an entrepreneur's "waste of money" on another "stupid idea." He decides not to interrupt.

Making it back to his room, he rubs his socks along the carpet, trying to gather enough electricity for a prank. However, he doesn't expect to open the door and see Michelle loomed over the opened, forgotten shoebox pulled from underneath his bed, the old letters—some crumpled, some water stained, some unfolded from the crumbled balls they had been formed into.

Frozen in the doorway, Peter stares, wide-eyed, a little despondent, a little shell shocked, a little something Michelle couldn't quite read as she tries, fails to mask her wave of panic.

In a rush, he's across the room and snatching up crumpled notes from the floor, exasperated, chiding bubbling from him, frantic, grabbing the few from her hands in the process. When he reaches for the shoebox in her lap, she pulls it out of reach defensively.

"MJ," he tries, reaching for the box again. She pulls it to he opposite side, making him walk around for it but only does it again. "Please!"

She holds the box behind her. "Not so fast." And she can _swear_ that he's never before looked like he's on the edge of crying while looking as red as a Christmas ornament in this lamp lighting.

He goes stock still and neither relaxes, but Peter isn't reaching for her throat any longer. The tension in the room is molasses-thick and summer-hot and irritating, like the scratching of a wool sweater.

Still on the floor, Michelle tucks the box under an arm, her other hand resting protectively on top of the lid. "Peter," she starts, warily.

He tries not to wince. She catches it anyway.

He feels his stomach drop to his feet when she pulls out a crumpled, folded note from her pocket and asks so dryly, "are these tear stains?"

Peter tries to cross his arms, to make himself seem undeterred, to seem _any way_ than frightful like he does now. Which would have been more convincing had he not been pomegranate red. "You weren't supposed to see those."

"Then why does it have my name on it?" she calmly questions.

"You aren't supposed to be going through people's stuff in their rooms!" his voice rises.

"Why does this has my name on it?!"

"You don't go snooping through people's stuff!"

There's morose, stress-filled pause that hangs in the air. From the living room, they hear May speak a condescending quip about a contestant on screen.

Peter shuffles. Crushes the notes in his hands. He dreads. Looks to Michelle and his gaze bounces off immediately. He fears.

"Parker," she starts, her tone softening. "This one was written about two years ago—"

He's anxious, a skittish rabbit ready to sprint. "MJ..." he tries. "Can we just finish this science project, please?"

For a moment, Michelle just stares up at him—he doesn't, can't meet her stare as he chews his lip. Looks down at his socks. Feels ashamed, vulnerable, and condemned.

On the paper in her hand is a crumpled, crudely written poem in pencil. It's dated as far back as ninth grade, and is filled with complications of heart rushes and insecurities, and it had been really fucking amusing as it as heartbreaking until Michelle read her name, signed by sender, at the bottom. There's dried mystery stains along the back as if it has once been tossed into a wastebasket. There's a little too-tight of a grip Michelle had on it when reading.

The box is filled with notes like this, some crumpled and forgotten, some unfinished, some a full-page long. Some for Valentine's Day, come birthday notes, some secret admirer letters, some absent-minded thoughts.

Taking one last scan of the one in her hand, she puts the poem back inside the shoebox before standing and motioning for Peter sit back down. And, reluctant and a nervous wreck, he does so, wishing that this all be done. However, Michelle doesn't sit and begins pacing his room, the box—and the source of his stress—held under her arm.

Peter doesn't speak. He fidgets; his hands are sweating. He watches the other teen walking the outline of his Captain America shield rug, and makes a mental note to replace it soon. Michelle's lips are puckered. She gives a small pat to the box in her arms. She actively ignores the apprehension radiating from the other teen.

Peter feels his muscles tightening, readying to sprint. As she eases open the lid to slip a and inside, he feels like he wants to die. A cry is on the edge of his tongue. He doesn't know what to do.

In here he's so alone, so pinpointed, and so _exposed_ that he could swear that his soul leaves his body as she begins reading alone a very juvenile line of rhymes from a year ago.

The girl looks between him and the paper.

Peter's palms are sweating, his pulse racing, vision spinning, and he wants to pull his hair out, wants sprint, wants to disappear, wants to _die_ —

Michelle's expression shifts to something he couldn't quite read. And he blinks in surprise as she compliments his writing and says so goddamn calmly, "I kinda like this one."

And then out of _all_ things, she fucking _smiles_ at him.

Peter thinks he must have passed out right then.

* * *

 

The very last incident featuring Michelle Jones is in a winter in Christmas. Radios overplay "Jingle Bell Rock" and "White Christmas." String lights and waving snowmen have been in display windows for months now. Parks aren't as crowded, and children whine about the old. Local news reporters are bundled up in jackets and scarves.

It's nearly a year later, and Peter finds himself standing outside Michelle's building, staring up at her lit living room window, with a math textbook in is hands. He'd just come from home after doing a patrol as Spider-Man—well it was more of an act to calm his nerves.

A breeze blows and he shivers, teeth chattering. He can see his breath in small clouds. Mentally, he can see the rest of the evening falling apart at ever possible, imagined scenario.

He continues staring, weighing his options, making excuses, prepping himself up.

There's two tickets in his pocket.

* * *

Before he could get three raps on the door, it's pulled open to reveal Michelle wearing an expression that's slightly bored, and slightly pissed.

"It was about time. You've been standing on the sidewalk outside of my house for, like, the last forty minutes, people were beginning to wonder if you're a murderer. Were you waiting for me to fall asleep or what?"

Too cold to speak yet, Peter just breathes.

She's already dressed, he sees—a pair of black yoga pants and a wrinkled white undershirt that he's pretty sure is _his_ , and she's quickly tying her hair up in a lumpy, slightly lopsided bun, and his pulse races, mind blanks, and he registers that his voice echoes a _little_ too loudly as he inquires, "would you—would you like to go ice skating?"

Barely a second goes by until he starts rambling away about how he's got two tickets, how he's never actually asked if she could skate but at least the music there is good, how he isn't very familiar either, how food is a good second choice too, how he wasn't sure which jacket to wear before coming and having to return home and then forgetting the textbook, about nearly getting on the wrong subway, and how he wonders if she's ever worn yoga pants before, and how May said this one time—

"Peter. Shut up." It comes out with a hook at the end, partially a question but he's not sure. "Your teeth are chattering so much they might fall out," she speaks, opening the door wider, inviting. "Get in."

Still shivering and apologizing, speaking how he doesn't want to come in and how he's okay standing outside and where her parents are—

" _Parker_."

He clamps his jaw shut.

Michelle informs that her mother will return to the living room. Pointing to the sofa in silent command to sit, she tells, "the textbook was a lame pick up, you know. ...But before _anything_ happens, I'm not going out with you because you asked." It's a thinly veiled lie and he knows it. "But because if you don't warm up first, you're going to lose all your teeth from chattering and then you're to be looking like an old man. And I don't like old guys."

She gives the excuse that her mother instructed her to make her guest a cup of hot chocolate from the boiling pot on the stove. A seasonal song about chestnuts over an open fire plays while the two sit together on the sofa, sipping cups of hot chocolate.

Her mother enters when he had been staring at a baby photo that Michelle told him not to. Nat King Cole plays as she looks him up and down, and first grills him questions about their plan for the evening, and then grills him questions about himself. Peter thinks he barely made it out alive, giving unsure answers that he worries made him appear skeptical.

Michelle will tell him that her mother found him entertaining.

* * *

 

Later, he learns that Michelle couldn't ice skate either. But she'll "shred his ass like a cheese grater" during regular skating, anytime.

**Author's Note:**

> **Feedback is much appreciated. And kudos don't tell much anyway. Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? So please, it's very important that you _comment_.**
> 
>  
> 
> **_Or_ , shoot me a complain and/or critic. Complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


End file.
